Celery
by winter machine
Summary: Good old-fashioned Mark and Addison over the years, slightly tongue-in-cheek and packaged as a birthday present.


_F's birthday story. Old school, somewhat tongue-in-cheek Mark/Addison (prompt: celery, of course)._

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><p><strong>Celery<strong>

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><p>"Why is Mark here, again?" Derek asks, drumming his fingers on the starched white tablecloth.<p>

"Why isn't the Captain?" Mark shoots back, and regrets it immediately when he sees a shadow cross Addison's face. Hating himself, he nudges her gently under the table with the toe of his boat shoe. "Hey, Addie-" but she just shakes her head, staring fixedly at the pattern on the elegant country club china.

Mark looks around the room, trying not feel awkward. Round tables are scattered throughout the dining room; the sun bleeds through stately windows and lights the mostly blond heads of the Greenwich elite. He feels oversized here, blue-collar and rough-hewn, and regrets making the drive with them - until Derek gets the call.

"Addie, it's a syringomelia case at St. Catherine's, I'm just going to do a quick consult-"

"How did they even know you were here?"

"Addison." He folds his napkin neatly and pats her hand. "Come on, don't tell me you actually mind. I won't be long, and Mark's here anyway."

"Derek-"

"I'll be back before you finish your drink." He drops a perfunctory kiss on her lips and nods in Mark's direction. "Keep an eye on her, will you?"

"I'm not a dog," Addison scowls.

"Of course not." Derek's face softens and he kisses her again, with slightly more feeling this time. "You're my lovely wife who has occasionally suffered a bout of the birthday blues..."

"Derek!"

He raises his eyes to the heavens, pats her arm and leaves. Addison props her head in one hand, using the other to draw straw-circles in her half-full bloody mary.

"I guess you're stuck with me," she says glumly, glancing in Mark's direction.

_Stuck._ Hardly. He doesn't dare say it out loud, then questions the decision. Maybe people would be happier if they said more out loud. "It's not stuck, Addie," he says finally, a little embarrassed. He snatches the untouched popover from Derek's bread plate and rips it in two to distracted himself. "It's not stuck at all," he mumbles.

"Oh." Her eyes are bright when he looks up. "Um. Thank you, Mark."

They drink in silence for a moment, Addison ignoring the eggs on her plate, the small crystal bowl of fruit.

"What Derek said, about the birthday blues..."

"Forget it." Addison shakes her head.

"Okay."

"It's just, you know, my father didn't show up." Addison runs her finger along the rim of the glass. "My husband left." She fingers the celery stalk poking out of the glass. "To say I have guy issues would be an understatement, right?"

"Addison..."

"Happy birthday to me." She slumps lower in the chair, drains the glass - making a face - and orders another.

"Addie, you haven't touched the food," Mark points out. He shifts in his seat, trying very hard to keep his eyes level. It's just that the fabric of her dress - it's one of those clingy flowered ones that she likes so much, the kind that looks conservative unless you're sitting close. From here he make out every contour, every curve.

She plucks the celery stalk out of the glass and slurps the sticky red drink from within its crevice. It's inelegant - even a bit vulgar - but he'd be lying if he said he wasn't entranced. She notices, of course, her smile now equal parts vixen and victim, and sniffs back tears even as she molds her lips around the bright green stalk.

"Addie, are you okay?"

"I spent my eighteenth birthday here, did I tell you that?" He shakes his head at the non-sequitur. "Well, it ... wasn't that different from today, I guess. The Captain never showed. My mother was here for about ten minutes and then squirreled away with her social secretary to plan some event. Naturally, I had the great luck to turn eighteen the year the drinking age was raised to twenty-one, and I just sat here with my drink-"

He raises his eyebrows and she shrugs one shoulder. "I'm a WASP. There's no actual drinking age for us. I think twenty percent of my amniotic fluid was gin."

He smiles.

"Anyway, I just sat here by myself and about halfway through my french toast I noticed that Trip Alcott was sitting right over there." She gestures with her chin. At Mark's lack of recognition she goes on: "Trip was _that guy, _you know, the guy every girl wanted. He played lacrosse for Boys Academy, I'd known him forever but of course he never gave me the time of day. I looked over there, you know, just for a second, and they were laughing-" her eyes fill with tears and she looks down into her drink, blinking furiously.

"Okay." He lets her sniffle for a moment, lost in the memory, and then he closes his hand over hers. "That was a long time ago, Addie."

She shakes her head. "Nothing's changed."

"Oh yeah?"

"Another birthday. No father. No husband." She rolls her eyes. "God, I'm a mess. I"m sorry, Mark, I-"

"You're not a mess." He reaches across the table and gently wipes a smudge of mascara from just under one eye. "Look, Addison, I didn't know you when you were eighteen, but you are, without a doubt, the most beautiful woman in the room today."

She rolls her eyes. "Mark-"

"Any room, anywhere, but at this moment: this room."

A pink flush creeps over her cheeks.

"And I don't know about this Trip Whatevercott, but if he didn't notice you then he's an ass." The corner of her mouth twitches and he goes on. "And I'm betting he's some fat Wall Street broker now with bad shoes."

"He was dating Muffy West..."

"Well, she's probably on her third kid now, a drunk housewife in Cos Cob who's sleeping with the pool boy."

Addison snorts. "You don't even know them!"

"I don't have to. If they snubbed you, that's all I need to know to figure out what idiots they are."

"Thanks." She graces him with a smile, one that reaches her eyes, and he squeezes her hand in return.

"So fuck 'em," he finishes helpfully and she giggles, over her tears now.

"I'll drink to that," she says. And they do.

And then they do again.

Two rounds later, Mark checks his watch as discreetly as he can. Four drinks, a few bites of the rustic bread pudding Addison requested in lieu of cake, and no sign of Derek. No call, either.

Addison raises her glass, giggling. "To tip!"

"Tip?"

"Trick." She giggles again, slurring her words. "Tim. I don't even remember. Fuck 'em all, right Mark?"

He glances around the room, leaning a bit closer to try to get her to lower her voice. "Um, right."

"This drink is delershous." She takes a long swallow and Mark plucks it out of her hands. She reaches for it and comes away with just the celery stalk. "NofairMark," she sulks in one breath. "'Smy drink. 'Smy birthday you know."

"I know."

There's a drop of bloody mary at the tip of her nose and he can't resist wiping off with one finger. She's just so cute. He licks the sticky red liquid off the tip of his finger and watches her watching him.

"Addie..."

She ignores him, stuffs three quarters of the celery stalk into her mouth at once - he tries not to gape, and sucks the liquid from it. She draws it halfway out, smiling crookedly at him.

"Mark?"

"Yeah, Ads?" He wants to tell her he's having trouble paying attention to anything else when she has that stalk of celery dangling half out of her mouth, when her soft pink lips and dangerous tongue are playing with the ribs and dips of the vegetable.

"You wanna go for a swim?"

"Um. We're not really dressed for it."

"So?" she leers, leaning forward and giving him an eyeful of creamy white skin. He tries in vain not to look but his gaze slides down her neck, past delicate collarbones and onto the soft swell of her breasts. Their tops are lightly freckled and he closes his eyes for a moment, trying to get control of himself. Under the starched linen tablecloth he's unbearably hard with no hope for relief. He spreads the dessert menu across his lap and tries to think of the least sexy things he can.

_Intake in the ER, drunks vomiting everywhere, the smell of blood._

_Organic chemistry tests._

"Mark?"

Her voice isn't helping. Her honeyed voice, a little husky with emotion, a little silly from the drink. God, he loves her voice. There's not much of her he doesn't love: her beautiful shimmering eyes, neither blue nor green, the way her mouth flicks around a pencil when she works, the way her lab coat swings around those incredible legs. Her humor. Her intelligence. Her ... marriage to his best friend. Fuck. So why the hell is he the only one sitting here?

He concentrates harder.

_Rats scurrying underneath the subway tracks. _

_Dragging suitcases up four flights of stairs to that fucking walk-up._

Except that just reminds him of Addison, waiting at the top of the stairs for them, in cutoffs so short her legs looked endless, sweat patching transparency into her thin white shirt, flushed from the heat. He wanted to lick the sweaty tendrils of hair against her neck. Goddamn it.

He snaps the menu shut, managing not to scream when the edge of the heavy leather casing brushes painfully sensitive flesh. "Can we get some air?"

"Oh. Sure." She starts to push back her chair, wobbles, and giggles again.

He helps her up, noticing she's still clutching the celery stalk, and slides an arm under hers when she starts to slide down. "I've got you."

They leave her cardigan at the table - it's the Captain's table, not like anyone else will be sitting there, and it's one of those unbearably old line clubs where _money _is simply too too rude for words. They pay in fucking WASP dollars or something or with fingerprinting, so no worrying about the check.

They walk outside into the crisp autumn air. It was Indian summer when they arrived, and now it feels like true fall. The grounds of the club are a study in perfect foliage. The grass is jewel green and gorgeously landscaped. Acres away, the rocky ledges that gave the club its name sink into the foam-capped waves of the Sound.

"Where are we going?" he asks finally, since she seems to have a sense of purpose.

"I want to show you something."

She's steadier on her feet now, and pulls him toward a rustic shed about twenty yards from one of the three swimming pools.

"What's this?"

She pushes on the door, hard, and it gives way. Inside it smells like wet wood and seaweed. It's dark and a little murky. He'll never understand these crazy rich people; one minute everything looks perfect and the next it's old and battered. He wasn't born into it. Hell, he hasn't even married it. So he just watches her to see what she'll do next. She never fails to surprise him. That's how he knows he could never get tired of her.

"Cabana shed." She grins. "Just the old cushions and stuff, you know-" and sure enough, navy-and-white striped canvas cushions line the wall, the floor, and -

"Addison, what are you doing?"

"I'm tired." She flops down on one of the cushions and kicks off her sandals. He trains his eyes away from the length of her half-bare legs. "I'm ... maybe I'm a little drunk." She looks up at him, eyes misty with intent, and he takes a step back automatically.

"Mark."

"Addison..."

"I'm lonely." She looks away for a moment, the long elegant column of her neck making the breath catch in her throat. "I'm lonely a lot of the time, Mark. I don't want to be lonely on my birthday too."

"Addie."

"Please, Mark."

To say he can't resist her would be an understatement. He's a little drunk himself but he's sure men have written poetry about faces far less lovely than hers. She's not a conquest, though, not a feather in his cap. She's his best friend's goddamn wife and he is - he's a manwhore is what he is, but he's prided himself on never crossing this line. Not the first time Derek tapped his feet and checked his beeper and tuned her out. Not the second time he came late to the bar or the restaurant or the coffee shop. They've been married for five years. Known each other ten. Maybe this is normal.

But then she's slipping cool soft fingers through his and tugging him down beside her and he knows nothing will ever be normal again. He waits a second - a lifetime - to see what she will do. She pulls his shirt up just enough so she can press her head, so gently it almost hurts, against his bare chest. "Your heart," she whispers, and he can feel it reverberating under her skull.

"Fast?" he asks. It would be an understatement.

She shakes her head. "Strong."

He swallows hard and runs his fingers through her silky hair. They haven't done anything. They haven't crossed any lines, not really. Her dress has ridden up and one his palms circles her thigh, the flexing muscles drawing him closer, but he doesn't broach the edge of her simple white silk panties.

"Mark..."

"Addie, we can't," he whispers into her her hair. Her shampoo smells like something warm and spicy - not flowers, he hates that flowery shit - vanilla or almonds or something good enough to eat. He kisses the top of her head gently.

"I know, I just-" her voice breaks.

"What?"

"I'm just so tired," she sighs again, and he draws her closer, holds as much of her as he can. Inches away from his fingers the flesh he's fantasized about is tantalizingly close. He could bury his face in her breasts, kiss each freckle and connect them with his tongue. He could slide his fingers under the silk barrier and explore the source of the heat that's pressing against his thigh. He wants to taste her, to see if the earthy, nutty smell of her hair extends farther down. He thinks of the way her cheeks flushed pink in the dining room; he thinks her thighs might flush that color too, if he spent enough time on her. And he would. He would never want to stop, if he started. He can't think beyond pleasuring her - beyond wiping that hopeless look from her eyes - but when he'd driven her past frenzy to satiety he'd bring her to the brink once more before he filled her with the longing he'd been fighting for ten years. He's spent almost two decades training his hips and his lips and his fingers and the realization that he can't use any of it makes his stomach clench in knots. He waits, listens for her cue. Her breath is warm and even against his neck, her body soft and pliant against his. A long sigh escapes her.

She's asleep.

He presses his cheek lightly to the top of her head, drinks in her scent and closes his eyes. It's not settling, he thinks, as she nestles into him and he lets himself drift off. It's everything.

The shed door bangs open and they startle awake. _Shit. _ He jumps away from her, choking on guilt, tugging her skirt down automatically. But it's not a child of privilege or a stray club member. It's much, much worse than that.

"What is this?" His voice is clipped. Emotionless. Cut, suture, close.

"Derek," Addison warbles. "Derek, it's not what you think, we-"

Derek just levels a cool gaze at them. "When you're ready," he says coldly, and shuts the door behind him.

"Oh no... oh, what did we do?" Addison's voice trills toward panic.

Mark pulls her to her feet, helping her rearrange her dress. "It's okay. Addie, it's okay."

"No, what _did _we do? I can't remember. I think I'm going to-" and she wrenches open the shed door just in time to lose her brunch - or rather her four brightly-colored bloody marys - all over Derek's shoes.

"Shit," she murmurs, and pitches forward. Mark moves in to catch her as Derek wipes his feet against the side of the shed. At Derek's glare he passes Addison into his arms as if just the touch of her skin could burn him. Derek takes her by the arms, holds her away from him, and addresses both of them.

"Once." His face is set and grim. "This happens once. One free pass. Never again."

"Look, man, nothing happened-"

"And I don't ever want to talk about it again."

Addison's brow is furrowed. "Talk about ... what ..."

Derek looks at her sharply. "What you were doing in the shed, _Addison._"

She still looks confused, her eyes struggling to focus. Finally she mumbles: "Eating...celery?"

Mark presses his fist to his mouth to keep from laughing.

Addison leans against Derek, trying - and failing - to pat his face. "I'm sor-sorry, honey. But can you, um, can you stop - turning in circles, okay?"

"How drunk is she?" Derek turns on Mark, who spreads his hands. Tucked beneath Derek's chin, Addison gives him a wink. Mark presses his lips together.

"This never happened," Derek says again, giving Mark a very hard look. Mark nods, chastened, and Derek's expression softens as he loops his arm around Addison.

"Come on," Derek says gently. "There are still a few hours of your birthday left. Don't you want to celebrate?"

Mark hangs back, kicking at the edge of the perfectly manicured grass. _We already celebrated without you! _he wants to yell at Derek.

And next time, he's not going to apologize for it.

"Happy birthday, Addie," Mark says softly as they walk, maintaining his distance behind the Shepherds, but he can tell just by the lift and fall of her long hair that she heard him.

Just as Derek demanded, no one mentions that night. But Derek must have taken the hint, at least a little bit, because next year on Addison's birthday Derek stays the whole time. He ignores his beeper and makes animated conversation with his wife. Mark, slumped in his seat sucking down a bloody mary and gloomily chewing the ends of his celery stalk, watches them. Addison doesn't even notice him; she's too busy drinking down every last drop of her husband's rare attention. He laughs at one of her jokes; she beams; Mark scowls. Next year, Mark begs off the invitation. The year after, they stop inviting him.

So he starts his own tradition. Every year, on her birthday, he sits in a bar - alone - and orders a bloody mary. He breaths in the rich tomato smell and lets the tabasco burn his tongue and finally, slowly, savors the crunchy stalk of celery.

Derek and Addison keep up their end of the bargain. No one mentions the shed, not even Mark. Not even for the agonizingly brief months that she's actually his.

Years pass. They're all on the west coast now: Addison's birthday comes three hours earlier. Mark sits alone in a corner of Joe's, drinking a bloody mary and swirling a limp stick of celerythrough the glass. He thinks about what he's gained and lost. He watches the sinew in his own hand, considers the grey at his temples and feels old. He could call Addison. He could wish her a happy birthday. He could tell her he's thinking about her.

But she's with Sam. She's happy, oceanside in California, sun-kissed and love-struck. She's probably drinking margaritas on the beach while her boyfriend massages her feet. He thinks about the sensitive spot just under her arch, about the way her feet felt in his hands when she would prop them on his thighs, trusting them to him. Remembers what he never admitted to her: that when he found out she was pregnant, he hoped the baby would have her feet. The baby...

He blinks hard on sentiment. Fearing decline, regretting his youth, he does what many a man before him has done: texts the puppyishly eager young woman under his spell and lets her make him forget, just for a night.

The forgetting doesn't last that long. It doesn't outlast his relationship with Lexie, who gives up on his indecision and - he privately fears - his aging body. It doesn't outlast the twinge he feels when Amelia calls him from L.A. to report, with suspicious solemnity, that Addison and Sam are finished.

"Addison wanted a baby," Amelia explains.

"And Sam? What did he want?"

"He wanted a fantasy."

Mark exchanges small talk with Amelia; later, after he's kissed Sofia good night, he slams his knuckles into a pillow (he'd prefer a wall, but he's not stupid) until his knuckles sting, jealous and angry and hating himself for letting her go one more time. He'd thought he was protecting her. But Sam was no better than - he grabs his blackberry, flips open the calendar. It doesn't take long to buy a ticket. It doesn't take long to start his life.

Amelia suggests some places; he finds her at the second one on the list. The sun is starting to set now, sinking below the horizon, casting an orange glow across the ocean. It's beautiful here. But not as beautiful as what he sees when he walks into the bar.

She's sitting stiffly on an open-air stool, black leather coat covering her hunched shoulders, playing with the straw of a drink he can't see. As he approaches and she leans back he makes out the glass: ruby red liquid interrupted by one proud stalk of green. He swallows hard.

He slides into the seat next to her without a word and signals the bartender. "I'll have what she's having."

She looks up. Her eyes are shadowed, like they've forgotten how to hope. "What are you doing here?"

He reaches for her glass and takes a welcome sip. Celery leaves brush against his nose. "Making up for lost time."

"Mark..."

"Happy birthday, Addie."

She licks her lips, a nervous habit that never fails to increase his pulse. She raises the drink to her mouth and he sees the green stalk brush against her chin. The years fall away. Her eyes are bright again.

"What do we do now?" she whispers.

He wraps his fingers around the stem of his own drink when it arrives, raises it in her direction. "We drink," he says, and clinks his glass gently against hers. "To third chances."

"Mark..."

"Fourth chances."

"And what do we do after that?"

He reaches out and carefully tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. She watches him intently. He could lose himself in her eyes, a shimmering green in the low bar light. "After that, Addie..." he pauses, cups her cheek gently and, with a soft sigh, she drops her face into his palm. He holds its weight, heart thumping, and runs his thumb lightly over her cheekbone. He moves closer, inhales her familiar scent and whispers against her ear: "After that, we eat the celery."

And that's what they do.

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><p><strong>Reviews are warmly welcomed and always appreciated.<strong>


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